Dear Severus
by thewandcrafter
Summary: Harry's been gone for three years, and writes a letter to Severus to let him know he's coming home.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Implied Snarry. All characters and places belong to J.K. Rowling and publishers. No profit accrues to the author of this story.

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Dear Severus,

God, I miss you.

I miss the touch of your hand, warm fingers sliding across the back of my hand, or tapping at my fingers, when I make a wrong move in your class, or grabbing at my robes to manhandle me when I piss you off.

I miss the nearness of your knee, your thigh brushing mine as we sit at the bar, warmth radiating off of you as you order your drink, turn to scan the room for friend and foe, place your hand on my shoulder as you ease off the bar stool, saying, "Watch my drink," as you go off to collect congratulations and handshakes and pats on the back.

I miss you.

I miss the way you have changed – the looseness with which you carry yourself at school, the calm on your face, the softness of your hair, the absence of defensive wariness, the looseness of your bones… the way you move more freely, less hurriedly, no matter that you eat up the corridors and stairways as quickly as ever, with your long stride.

I miss the way you are the same – brilliant, insightful, sharp-witted and sharper-tongued. I miss you appearing suddenly, out of nowhere, throwing me off balance, making me catch my breath, panic and laughter equally bubbling their way up my chest and out my mouth, making me say and do stupid things, stumbling over my words and my feet and the ingredients to whatever potion you've set us brewing.

I miss your mouth. I miss how your lips thin when you are angry or displeased or when I prove, yet again, what an ignorant arse I am. I miss how they purse when you contemplate an idea, how they move silently when you brew, reviewing steps, or – for all I know – reciting poetry. I imagine it's poetry.

I miss the way your voice slithers down my back, prickles my neck, resonates in my bones when you catch me out, or issue instructions, or call our attention to the board. I miss your voice in my ear at Ministry doings – "Hold this for me, Potter. I'll be right back."

I miss that you never come back. I miss even that – that you get distracted by some sycophant or true admirer, or someone posing an intriguing potions dilemma, leaving me holding your drink of absinthe or firewhiskey or whatever, your lips leaving a light imprint on the rim of the glass, your fingers leaving a trail of warmth that mine try to find while I wait. I miss giving up and going to find you, watching you from a distance, watching you talk with others, loving that this has changed for you.

I miss that, even compared to Ron and Hermione, you _get me._ I miss that we share some understanding that passes between us only in looks, in silent nods, in waiting for each other, in watching each other's back. I miss knowing that you are watching out for me… even when I know you are still watching out for me, somehow, no matter that I am half a continent away.

I miss the graceful elegance of you – the way you move across a room, the delicacy of your touch when you brew or eat or write, the billowing of your robe when you whirl on your heel to leave a room or stride to the front to take the podium to address the Wizengamot.

I miss the way watching you made my stomach tighten and made me wish for things I never understood… until, finally, I did. I miss daydreams and night dreams and aching for the thought of you and what I wanted. I miss the dizzying shock of figuring it out…

I miss you, Severus. I miss the things that never were – your arm across my shoulders, amusement and acceptance in your eyes, a warmly welcoming open door when I knock at the entrance to your quarters, a "Well done, Mister Potter." I miss the opportunity to tell you how bloody grateful I am for everything you've ever done for me, ever taught me, ever been for me, from before I was born. I miss being a man in your eyes – a man worth knowing, worth befriending. I miss the opportunity.

I miss you more than I miss Hogwarts, more than I miss Hedwig or Dobby, more than I miss Remus, more than I miss Sirius. I miss all that was and never was, and all that could be but is not yet. I miss coming to know you better, being myself with you and hoping you'll somehow find that enough, fair enough, to be getting on with. I think I miss you more than I miss Ron and Hermione – not that they leave me alone enough to find the time to miss them…

I'm coming home, Severus. Not to Hogwarts, maybe… but to Britain… to Scotland… to Hogsmeade and the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley and Muggle London… I'm coming home to Aberforth's… Rosmerta's… Madam Malkins'… I'm coming home to see the Weasleys, to chuck Ron and Hermione's firstborn under the chin and teach her to call me "Uncle Harry". I'm coming home to report into Kingsley… to let Hagrid crack my ribs in one of his hugs… to let Minerva tell me to call her "Minnie"… to let Molly hug me and tell me I'm too skinny and cry over me, and for Arthur to call me "son". I'm coming home to make my peace with Trelawney… and with the ghosts of my past. I'm coming home to apologize to Madam Pomfrey for stressing her out for six years, and to the Chudley Cannons for turning down their offer, and to the Ministry for missing the last three years of memorial balls. I'm coming home to admire Neville's greenhouses and Luna's artwork and Dean's music and Seamus' cauldrons. I'm coming home to see what new products George and Angelina and Ron have concocted.

But mostly, I'm coming home to you, Severus… who knows me better than I know myself… who sees me clearly… who holds me to standards and refuses to let me fail… whom I trust more than anyone in the world…

I'm coming home. And… I hope… this time, maybe… maybe you will see me… as me… and… let me at least try.

Please. Let me try.

I am – unexpectedly, inevitably, irreversibly, completely – yours.

Harry


	2. Chapter 2

Potter,

You belong to no one but yourself. Nor should you give yourself entirely into another's keeping. No one is that trustworthy – least of all, your old Potions professor.

I am afraid I am as you have always known me to be – a cantankerous, foul-tempered, critical, often bitter man. I have never learned to love, nor given my heart, other than to my old childhood friend Lily, and possibly Dumbledore, Minerva, Flitwick… My friends are few, for a reason – mostly my character and its limitations.

The war has left me, thankfully, with fewer reasons to be wary, particularly at Hogwarts, where my colleagues have given me the grace of their forgiveness, albeit begrudgingly at times. Thus, I walk more easily here than elsewhere in the world, limiting the ease that you noted to the halls of the school. I wish I could claim that it has softened me to her customary inhabitants, the students. It has not. I still find them as fumble-fingered and thick-headed as always, still lament their lack of attention, the lack of care they take with potions that may kill as easily as heal. I am afraid you would find me just as much a bastard as I ever was toward you and your classmates, aside from the worry of keeping you from a premature death and my anger every time you threw yourself in harm's way.

I have indeed, as you surmised, kept watch on you from afar, lest my efforts the first twenty-three years of your life had been in vain. You need not seek invisible Order members or untrustworthy house elves, however. I'm afraid my methods have been rather plebian, involving correspondence with the master under whom you have been studying these past three years.

How perceptive of you to have chosen far eastern France, where attitudes toward the English border on pretending we do not exist. I anticipate with some horror the bastardization of that beautiful language falling from your lips.

England misses you, Potter. The Ministry laments your absence daily, as if your choice to study abroad is a personal rejection of all that wizarding England has to offer, no matter that their actions likely contributed to your flight. I use that word not in disdain – you are no coward, and no one could accuse you of such without being laughed out of the room. I consider it wisdom.

Yes – I said it. Wisdom, Potter. Who would have thought? I applauded your choice from the day I was informed you had left… though I admit I had rather you had informed me, so that I might have set up my… surveillance… ahead of time. Chasing down your location required several unsavory interactions with your friend Ronald, which included sharing liberal libations I would prefer never to imbibe again. I assure you, he did not require Veritaserum. Nor would I have violated… your friends… your trust… that way.

As I said, England misses you. Your friends and family miss you. Hagrid laments your absence loudly and often. Minnie's eyes turn misty at the very thought of you. Trelawney continually cuts her Tarot card deck, seeking signs of your return. Heaven forfend you prove her wrong by remaining in that bestial country you no doubt call your own by now. Dumbledore's portrait pesters me unceasingly, insisting I should fetch you back.

I prefer you return on your own, for your own reasons. Flattery is unneeded and unwelcome. You need not cite me as a cause. Missing those who love you is sufficient reason to compel any wizard of feeling to return.

You belong here, Potter. You know that as well as I. You need not return to Hogwarts, if that is not your wish, but… That is, perhaps, a matter for you to discuss with Minerva. I and all of England await your return. Do try to return quietly. The noise of celebration otherwise would give me a headache of – Dare I say it? – heroic proportions.

S.S.

P.S. It's potions ingredients.

It may occasionally be poetry.

And detention for your inattention and your cheek. My office. 8 p.m. sharp. Don't be late.

Come home, Potter.


End file.
